Page 36 of Italian Weddings

I T WAS PROBABLY THE longest ten minutes of Salvatore’s life. Which should have given him all the red flags he needed, the vital warning to do the smart thing and run a thousand yards from this intoxicating witch of a woman.

Because not being able to stop thinking about Emilia Valentino was not a phenomenon he was enjoying.

Nor was having her possible social life dictate his plans, and his life.

Case in point, coming to this event even though he generally cut a large check for this sort of charity rather than attending the fundraiser.

But just the prospect of seeing her again, of being able to get under her skin—or her skirt, as the case may be—had seen him asking his assistant to secure a ticket.

And there she’d been. Beautiful, in that classy, untouchable way of hers.

Always immaculate, as though she’d been coiffed and dressed to meet the Queen.

It was one of the reasons he loved mussing her hair, smudging her lipstick, creasing her clothes.

To see her outer visage more closely match the wildness he knew she had within her was both a pleasure and a privilege.

It was something he intended to do as soon as he could.

He'd promised himself that the moment he’d seen her walk in.

The black cocktail dress was, if anything, demure.

Just a simple dress, it hugged her slim figure like a second skin, but it fell to her knees and had a neckline that showed not even a hint of cleavage—he knew this for a fact, because he’d been looking.

It was the heels that had really sunk him, though.

They were impossibly high and thin, and yet she’d walked around on them all night, as though they were an extension of herself.

And that hair, with its glossy, golden brown ends, was in a high ponytail, that he’d spent an infuriatingly large portion of the night imagining himself grabbing and holding it, maybe even while she was on her knees for him.

He bit back a groan as the lift drew him upwards, and finally, when the doors pinged, he took the briefest moment to scan the sign, indicating which way he should go, before walking quickly to the left.

He swiped the keycard and when the door buzzed, he pushed it inwards, dark eyes once again scanning the room.

The hotel had been almost fully booked, so it was not a suite, but rather, an ordinary room, with a large bed in the centre of it.

The lights were off, except for a lamp in the corner, and her silhouette was outlined against the large glass window that had a view of Manhattan.

She didn’t turn around when he walked in, and in the back of his mind, he wondered if that was because she was afraid.

Not of him, but of what happened when they were together.

Of the fact that neither of them wanted this, and yet they both seemed to understand it was as inevitable as it was satisfying.

What the hell had happened to them in Moricosia?

While they’d been thrown together a fair bit, while Ares and Sofia were off hiking, he’d gone into each and every one of those encounters considering her very much the enemy.

Salvatore might show an easy going, relaxed nature, outwardly, but his passions, feelings and loyalty all ran deep.

And that loyalty was to the Santoros —who the Valentino family were intent on destroying.

Twice in the last two years they’d won enormous victories against the Santoros.

First, with the acquisition of Acto Corp, which the Santoros had spent years attempting to buy.

Secondly, with the development in Moricosia, spear-headed by the very same woman he was looking at now as though she were the last woman on earth.

Which really pissed him off, because he knew she wasn’t.

Salvatore could walk into any bar and pick up a woman.

That he had the iPhone equivalent to a little black book the thickness of an encyclopedia.

So why didn’t he feel like calling any of those women?

Why didn’t he just go out and meet someone else?

Why had he spent the night practically drooling into his drink at the sight of Emilia in the crowded room?

All that anger and frustration, though mostly levelled at himself, suddenly exploded into something else.

Need, passion, and yes, irritation with Emilia, because why on earth should she be able to do this to him?

He didn’t waste any time, but rather pulled her into his arms, holding her against him as though they’d win some kind of prize if they could stand there without a single hint of space between their bodies.

His leg between hers, his mouth meshed to hers, arms around her back, whole body holding hers, pulling her with him, drawing her to the bed.

Her damned dress was too fitted to allow her to part her legs more than a little, and he so desperately needed to get it off her.

“Fuck this dress,” he muttered, as his hands struggled to lift it up her thighs.

“Tsk, tsk. What did the dress ever do to you?”

He pulled back and glared at her. The fact he felt like his temper was hanging on by a thread, and she was almost laughing at him? He ground his teeth and said, commandingly, “Turn around.”

His tone had her smile slipping and her eyes flaring, but she did as he said, pulling her pony tail over one shoulder, to give him full access to the hidden zipper at the back.

Maybe in another lifetime, he might have taken it slowly, relishing the tease of easing it down her spine, letting his fingers glide and flirt, tempt and arouse, before turning her and tormenting her with slow, hungry kisses, until she was melting in his arms.

But his own needs were too great for that. He pulled the zip down as quickly as he could, over the small, sweet curve of her ass. And even as he reached that curve, his other hand was up at her shoulders, sliding the dress down, off her beautiful body.

She wore no bra, just like the other night.

While he hadn’t seen her breasts then, he’d sucked her nipples through the silk fabric, and he’d known there was only the finest barrier between himself and her flesh.

Now, though, he ached to touch with nothing between them, and that was exactly what he did, reaching around and cupping her breasts, holding them as his mouth came down on the bare flesh of her shoulder and kissed her there.

He squeezed her nipples until she was crying out, his touch demanding and insistent.

Emilia pushed backwards, as though she too was seeking to remove any space from between them, as though she wanted—no, needed as he needed—more. So much more.

Putting aside the question of what the hell was happening to him, he resigned himself to the fact it was, and simply existed in the moment.

He dropped his hands to her hips, so he could spin her around to face him and then his eyes devoured her.

Already, he’d left red stubble marks on her throat and he loved the sight of that—the possession it indicated, the fact that she was, in that moment, his. As wild for him as he was for her.

“This doesn’t seem fair,” she said, her voice breathy and light, as she gestured with shaking fingers towards his suit, still very much still in place.

“You’re welcome to do something about that,” he invited.

“I thought you’d never ask.”

“Did you really think that, Emilia?” he asked, curious as to her answer. Her eyes lifted to his and her cheeks flushed pink, but whatever she was thinking, she didn’t say. “I’ve been called many things but with you, I don’t think subtle could be one of them.”

Her flush darkened and something ballooned inside his chest. Curiosity. Fascination.

A desperate, all-consuming hunger to know more about this woman. To understand her better. Outwardly, she was so composed and contained, the last word in untouchable sophistication. But when it was just the two of them, he could press her buttons, making her unspool in a way he could get hooked on.

Which was enough of a bright, glaring warning sign for Salvatore, because if he was ever going to get hooked on anyone, it sure as hell wouldn’t be Emilia Valentino.

But where he’d undressed her with lightning speed, desperate to see her naked, Emilia’s fingers worked slowly as they went through his buttons, one by one, and separated his shirt, so his breath hissed beneath his teeth with an impatience he couldn’t control.

Then, before he knew it, his own hands were at his zipper, unfastening it and pushing his pants down.

Her eyes flew to his, but there was an amusement in their depths.

A mockery, even, like she knew she had the power to bring him to his knees and was relishing that.

In any other circumstances, with any other woman, he would have had no issue ceding whatever power to her, but this was Emilia Valentino.

A muscle jerked in his jaw as he stepped fully out of his pants, using the same motion to swap positions with her, so Emilia was nearest the bed, then gently pushing her backwards, until she was sitting on the edge.

That slicked back pony tail of hers just itching to be held, touched.

His hand curved around the back of her head, his fingers tangling in the lengths, wrapping it around his fingers until it was all held in his fist. She stared up at him, eyes huge, lips parted, and then her fingers were drawing his boxers down, not slowly now, but impatient, like he’d felt earlier.

Naked in front of her, with Emilia’s eyes still on his, she leaned forward and took him in her mouth, so he cursed loudly into the room. True, he’d fantasised about this on the way up, but it had been exactly that: a fantasy. He hadn’t expected—or hoped—it to happen.